I don't even know why
I feel compelled to write anything about this blast of hot air.
The lyrics are unimaginative -- bland, even -- and yet, at once, incredibly ...
manipulative.
It has that overproduced, blow-dried, Cali wall-of-cocaine sound that less adept producers
tried and failed to rip off from Phil Spector, because they thought the quality of the wall
of sound was less important than the sheer existence of the sound.
Even now, it gets airplay and probably has been used to sell toothpaste, baby diapers or a
cell phone airtime package more than once.
Kind of like the food at the snack bar at Wal-Mart, I'd guess. Presuming, of
course, I'd ever been desperate
enough to actually consider the stuff you can buy at the snack bar at Wal-Mart
food, and then be ill-advised or drugged-up enough, along with that
delusion. to actually sit down and ... ew ... eat it.
Now that's a distasteful thought.
Think I need some Pepto Bismol.
To quote Lucy Van Pelt: "Bleagh."